A Safe Place
by Tessadragon
Summary: Entry for Young Six competition.


A Safe Place

"I'm sorry! Mommy I'm sorry!" the child screamed, falling to his knees. His mother's face twisted in rage, she struck him again, just as the front door opened, the light of the streetlight beyond shone into the dark hallway.

"Take your hand off my grandson," the voice was chilling with fury. The woman was old but she strode forward and grabbed the child's hand and pulled him towards her. Trembling like a rabbit, he clung to her hand, a hand thin with age, the skin loose but very soft, patterned with blue veins. "Baby, come with me," her voice was very soft now.

"He's my son!" the younger woman screamed.

"Not any more," the old woman said, turned on her heel and strode off, the boy clinging to her hand.

The younger woman screamed and screamed, not words, just sound, a ragged sound.

A taxi waited. The old woman slid in and beckoned her grandson to follow, with only her hand, her voice would have been swallowed by the boy's mother's angry screams. He curled up in the backseat and pressed his hands to his ears. The old woman pulled him against her and held him as he trembled.

"You won't hurt me?" he whispered.

"I could never hurt you," she said. She spoke the truth. She took him home, made a bed for him on the sofa, her mind full of worries for the days ahead: she was an old woman, he was such a little boy, not even five years old yet. Looking at him as he slept, she silently promised him a better life though, as good as she could provide. She placed a call to the boy who ran errands for her in his free time. "I need you to get me some things. Clothes for a five year old boy. A few toys to amuse him. Maybe a book or two I can read to him."

"Yes ma'am." She liked the young man. He was wiry, bright-eyed, intelligent. She'd encountered him a long time ago coming out of the town's dojo, breathless from his lessons, colliding with her on getting the groceries. He'd helped her pick the things up, struck up conversation and on finding that they lived on the same street, accompanied her home and become an acquaintance.

He was prompt in the task, but when he rang the doorbell, the child sprang to his feet, looking for somewhere to hide.

"Hold my hand," the grandmother smiled at him, and walked with him to the door. He kept his brown eyes on her, anxious, quivering as she opened the door.

A young man stood there and immediately gave the child a friendly smile, stooped to be on eye level with him. "Hello, you must be Ira's grandson. I have some toys for you."

The boy's eyes widened, he looked up at his grandmother because it sounded too good to be true. "Grandma, what's toys?"

"I will show you," the young man immediately volunteered and entered the house, giving the grandmother a smile and a wink. She smiled back at him and went to sit down, watching as the young man opened the bag he carried, laying out some bundles of clothes and a few books, then took out with a flourish a jigsaw puzzle and a pack of cards to play snap.

"These were my favourite kinds of toys," he admitted, putting them out. "I don't remember much else what kids like." He knelt on the floor and spread out the jigsaw pieces, showing the boy how some pieces fit together and others didn't. The boy tentatively tried fitting together some pieces, his eyes narrowing with concentration and a small smile sneaking onto his lips.

"Thank you," the grandmother said quietly.

"He seems a nice kid," the young man responded just as quietly, understanding.

He came over each day after that, sometimes bringing new toys, sometimes bringing things to show the boy: shells, flowers, one time insects (the grandmother asked him not to do that ever again.)

Then one day he knocked.

The boy opened the door. He'd changed, he stood taller, his eyes were bright brown with interest and curiosity, even friendliness. He wasn't hiding any more. "Grandma's asleep," he told the young man.

The young man frowned. "I'll just go and check on her." His instincts were excellent.

Her hand was cold to his touch. Her face was peaceful as she laid in her bed, her covers still drawn to her thin shoulders.

He looked at the child. The child was only barely six years old, he still carried the scars of his drunk mother. He couldn't even imagine the effect an orphanage could have on him.

He knelt to be on eye level with the boy and the boy watched him intently, curious. "Your grandmother's asleep and isn't going to wake up," he said quietly. "She's in a forever dream now."

"That sounds nice," the boy said, not entirely understanding.

"It means she can't look after you any more," he told the boy. He reached out and took the boy's hand. "If you would like, I can look after you. But it'll mean that you have to do the same things as I do. I'll teach you, and I'll never force you to do things you don't want to do, unless it's life and death."

"Life and death?" The boy knew what life was, but not what was death. It sounded close to the word 'dead' though…he had a distant flash of a woman screaming at him _"I wish you were dead!"_ and he flinched, fear entering his eyes, then grabbed at his grandmother's cold hand.

"You're gonna take me back to Mummy!" the boy started to cry.

"No, never," the young man's voice was fierce. He reached out and laid his hand on the boy's shoulder, drawing his gaze again. "I promise I'll never let her touch you again. I'll teach you to look after yourself, and to be unafraid. Okay?"

"And Grandma can come with us?" the boy whispered.

"You can bring her in here," the young man touched the boy's chest. "You can hold her here in your heart. But she's gone now."

The boy was still confused, but understood enough of what the young man said. He looked hard at the young man. Was he still the one he trusted as much as his grandmother? He felt the answer as deep inside as his memory of his grandmother saving him. "I trust you," he whispered.

Quietly they packed his clothes, books and games into a bag, and on the way out of the house the young man placed a call to the police and left the door open.

The next day there were two empty houses on that street, and there was a young man and a young boy on a plane. Behind them sat two emotionless men. The boy looked at them then gave a curious look at his protector. "What are they?" he whispered.

"Mercenaries," the young man said softly. "Like me."

"Mercenaries," the boy tried the word out. "Mercenaries…It has the word mercy in it," the boy whispered, smiling.

"Having mercy is a good thing sometimes," the young man agreed. "Maybe you could be a good mercenary one day."

The plane landed in a clearing, surrounded by lush greenery.

"Where are we?"

"A safe place," the young man smiled, at ease now. "We can call this home."


End file.
